


'it's for you' drabbles

by jehans



Series: it's for you [32]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehans/pseuds/jehans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of life in the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/36591">it's for you</a> 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. quit playing games with my head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> combeferre is surprisingly good at video games, but courfeyrac is less than impressed

“MOTHERFUCK!”

“What is it called when you come back to life?”

“Respawning.”

“Do that, please.”

Courfeyrac groans. “Dude, I have to wait, I can’t just fucking _do it_ on my own.”

“Well I’m trying to kill that orc and you’re kind of holding me back,” Combeferre responds, squinting at the television and hitting the buttons on his controller with a kind of expert precision that Courfeyrac wants to SLAP OFF OF HIS STUPID FACE.

“Mother _fuck_ ,” he mutters again. And then respawns.

“Over here, please,” Combeferre says calmly as his character slices off an opponent’s head.

Courfeyrac grunts and flails around trying to get at a few himself. Combeferre hasn’t even _played_ video games before, Courfeyrac was supposed to be guiding him through his. But Combeferre had spent about twelve seconds figuring out the buttons and now SUDDENLY HE’S AN EXPERT, that _smooth bastard_.

“You are never going to win Jehan’s heart like that,” Combeferre tell him, smirking, as his character gets knocked down and Combeferre’s has to come rescue him.

“Dude!” Courfeyrac shouts. “Low blow!”

“Do you think Jehan wants a man who gets stepped on by orcs?” Combeferre snorts. “Or one who can protect him from danger?”

“Oh _come on_ , assface,” Courfeyrac retorts intelligently, “you and I both know Jehan’s going to be protecting _me_ from shit. On the left!”

But Combeferre is already shooting arrows at the sniper.

“Wait a second, are you threatening to steal my man?” Courfeyrac asks suddenly, and is promptly killed by a troll.

“He’s not your man yet, Courf,” Combeferre replies as his character kills three orcs at once and then leaps onto the villainous troll. “And I am straight.”

“Nobody is completely straight with Jehan in this world,” Courfeyrac sighs dreamily.

“You are pansexual, Courfeyrac, you have no concept of straight.”

Courfeyrac laughs as his character re-respawns.

“On your right, Courf.”

“Shit!”

“I got it.”

“COMBEFERRE, THAT WAS ME! YOU JUST KILLED ME! WE ARE ON THE SAME TEAM!”

“You were in my way.”

Courfeyrac shrieks in frustration and rolls right off the couch.


	2. relative productivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka it's really a wonder jehan and courfeyrac get anything done ever

“Mmm. . .if you keep kissing me, I’m never going to get any work done and your room is never going to get clean.”

Courfeyrac grins and presses his lips to Jehan’s again. “I don’t see the problem,” he mutters.

Jehan’s hands fist in his hair (there’s still a pen between two of his fingers and it taps against Courfeyrac’s head a little as he does). Jehan is sat cross-legged on Courfeyrac’s bed while Courfeyrac leans over the bed, propping himself up on his arms so he can kiss and kiss and kiss his boyfriend instead of cleaning his room like he’s supposed to be doing.

“I have to write this poem,” Jehan murmurs, but he hasn’t let go of Courfeyrac’s hair.

“Write it later,” Courfeyrac growls, pushing forward to start leaving open-mouthed kisses along Jehan’s jaw.

“It’s due this afternoon,” Jehan gasps, tilting his head to give Courfeyrac better access to his throat.

“Oh, then we have _hours_ ,” Courfeyrac replies, grinning.

“Poetry takes work, Courfeyrac,” Jehan grumbles, but then moans deliciously as Courfeyrac’s tongue runs lightly over his collarbone and Courfeyrac feels butterflies in his gut.

“Consider this research,” he breathes hot against Jehan’s skin.

“Oh _god_ ,” Jehan moans. He drops his pen and shoves his notebook off the bed, scooting backward so Courfeyrac can climb on top of him. “Fine, just _take my goddamn pants off.”_

Courfeyrac is more than happy to oblige.


	3. that is inappropriate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Enjolras. You and your unresolved sexual frustration.

He’s infuriating.

He’s absolutely _infuriating_.

And _god_ what Enjolras wouldn’t do to just pin him against the wall and —

— well, he’d —

 _Fuck_.

Grantaire is doing that thing again, where he pipes up with some obnoxiously intelligent tirade against whatever it is that Enjolras just said (he’s having trouble focusing on his own rhetoric tonight), and then flashing some cheeky grin while ending with a joke or goddamn pun or something, and making the whole room laugh along with him even though he’s just spent the last however many minutes berating their ideals and beliefs.

And that _absolutely should not_ make Enjolras want to shove him against any flat surface and run his tongue along the grooves on his throat and roll his hips against his —

No! _No that is not appropriate, no!_

Enjolras shakes his head to clear it of the mental images of dark, sweat-soaked curls and paint-stained hands gripping at his skin while mouths search and find and taste. . . .

Combeferre is watching him, a question in his eyes, and Enjolras shakes his head again, this time to dissuade Combeferre from worry.

But when he looks up at Grantaire again, the cynic is watching him, too. And there’s a ghost of a smile left dancing on his lips, but he’s looking at Enjolras with that intensity — that _fire_ — that he only has hidden in those deep eyes when those eyes are trained on Enjolras.

And Enjolras huffs in frustration and shifts in his seat. This is going to be a long night.


	4. leftovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But really, Éponine, what WILL you do when Gavroche is a teenager?

That thump coming from Gavroche’s room sounds really suspicious.

So Éponine hauls herself up off the couch and marches over to his room, swinging the door open without preamble.

“What the hell are you doing, kid?” she demands when she sees her little brother, hanging upside down from the clothes rod in his closet.

“I’m hungry!” he shouts, glowering at her, like that’s some kind of explanation for hanging like a bat in your closet.

“Get down!” Éponine shouts back. “Courf will be here any minute to take you out for dinner, just for god’s sake get off of that, that’s going to break and you’ll break your face. And we can’t afford hospital bills, so you’ll just have to live with a broken face.”

Gavroche rolls his eyes mightily and sighs, but reaches up to swing down off of the rod. “What are _you_ going to eat?” he asks.

Éponine shrugs. “Whatever’s in the fridge,” she says.

“There’s nothing in the fridge.”

“I’ll manage, squirt,” Éponine insists. “Now get your shoes on, Courfeyrac will be here in like five minutes.”

She leaves him to do so — Éponine is Gavroche’s sister, not his mom, and she knows that boundary. She knows that he’ll only listen to her and respect her if she does the same for him. She also knows that he’s nine years old and as he gets older, this is just going to get harder.

“Oh my _god_ what am I going to do when he’s a _teenager?_ ” she finds herself moaning ten minutes later to Courfeyrac, who’s sat on her kitchen counter as he waits for Gavroche to change his pants (Gavroche always cares way more about sartorial matters when Courfeyrac is going to take him out).

Courfeyrac laughs at her. “If he’s anything like me,” he says cheerfully, “he will be a _delight_.”

“Gavroche is nothing like you,” Éponine deadpans back at him but he just laughs again.

But then, suddenly, he gets very serious and says, “You know I’ll be here, right? I love that kid, I’ll be around to help you if you want me to.”

Éponine blinks. Every now and again Courfeyrac is so genuine and so kindhearted that it’s absolutely disarming. But Éponine is never, ever disarmed for long.

“You know, Courf,” she says dryly, “I’m really not sure _you’re_ the guy I want to give my little brother the safe sex talk.”

Courfeyrac groans. “Aw, dude, you _wound_ me. I have always been _excellent_ at safe sex. Besides,” he adds, a little smile playing on the corners of his mouth now, “by the time you’d want me to give him that talk anwyay, I will have been in a loving, committed relationship with one person for _several_ years. You really couldn’t do better.”

Éponine almost doesn’t want to smile, but she does. “You seem really sure about that,” she tells him.

Courfeyrac grins and sighs a little dreamily. “Jehan and I are forever,” he says certainly. “As long as he wants me.”

“Well it took you two long enough,” Éponine answers, rolling her eyes.

Courfeyrac laughs indignantly. “Did _everyone_ know except us?” he demands.

Éponine nods. “Even Marius knew.”

“PONTMERCY?! Surely Cosette told him.”

“The point is, he _knew_ ,” Éponine insists (because, yeah, Cosette did have to tell him). “You guys have been sickeningly in love with each other since you _met_ , it was _about time_.”

Courfeyrac grins at that, unable to be anything but deliriously happy that Jehan is in love with him. Then he clears his throat and swings his leg forward to poke her with his foot. “Hey, if I bring you food, will you eat it?”

“I don’t need you to bring me food,” Éponine says immediately. She doesn’t need hand outs and Courfeyrac knows this.

“Even if it’s just my leftovers?”

“Since when do you ever have leftovers?”

“This place serves _huge_ portions.”

“Courfeyrac,” Éponine says firmly. “I’m fine with you taking Gavroche out because you guys are close, okay fine, but I don’t need your charity.”

“It’s not charity except on your part,” Courfeyrac argues. “If I bring more leftovers home, Jehan will kill me, there is no room in his fridge.”

“Then put it in yours.”

“Then _Enjolras_ will kill me. Please, ‘Ponine, you’d be doing me a huge favor.”

Éponine chews on her lip and glares at him. There actually is no food in her house. “Fine,” she says finally, “but I get to pay you for it next time I get paid.”

Courfeyrac sticks out a hand for her to shake. “Deal.”

Eight minutes later, after Courfeyrac has swung Gavroche up onto his shoulders and carried him out of the apartment, when Éponine finds an extra twenty dollar bill stuck in the back pocket of her jeans that she _knows_ wasn’t there half an hour ago, she really wants to be mad.

But she just can’t find it in herself.


	5. the song of my crying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greek mythology will be the end of us all.

To say that Enjolras is alarmed when he hears a kind of dying-whale-like sound coming from the living room is an understatement. In fact, he practically falls off Grantaire’s bed, where he’s been calmly reading for the past hour and a half while Grantaire reads out in the living room. They had been reading on the couch together, but then Grantaire had begun making really odd choking noises and then banished Enjolras into his bedroom so he could be alone with the end of _The Song of Achilles_.

But now there are dying whale noises, so Enjolras steadies himself and launches out toward the living room. Hardly does he get out the bedroom door, though, when Grantaire shoves past him and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. His book is lying haphazardly on the floor against the wall as though thrown there.

And now the whale noises are coming out of the bathroom.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras calls cautiously through the door, trying not to get worried before he has all the facts. “Are you all right?”

“No, I am not fucking all right!” Grantaire yells back, his voice muffled by the door between them.

Enjolras frowns, his heart constricting a little. “Is this a legitimate upset?” he asks. “Or a my-book-was-sad upset?”

The door swings open and Enjolras is faces with the almighty fury of Grantaire in distress (but then he sees the tears in Grantaire’s eyes and he melts a little).

“Fuck you,” Grantaire mumbles tearfully, “my-book-was-sad _is_ a legitimate upset.”

Enjolras smiles and brushes his fingers over Grantaire’s face. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“No,” Grantaire grunts, looking away and sighing.

Enjolras nods. “Okay,” he says casually, but when he turns to go back into Grantaire’s bedroom, his hand finds Grantaire’s and he tugs, bringing him too.

He slides into bed, pulling Grantaire along with him until Grantaire is nestled up against his side, tucked under his arm, sniffling.

Enjolras presses a kiss to Grantaire’s curly hair. “They’re only fictional characters,” he murmurs, trying to be comforting.

“Fuck you,” Grantaire whimpers again, but turns his face further into Enjolras’ body.

Enjolras smiles and kisses his hair again.


	6. northumberland legal journal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're going to need to talk about this 'sleeping while I talk' thing later.

“Are you coming to bed?”

Enjolras looks up from his textbook to see Grantaire, in boxers and t-shirt, in the doorway of his bedroom, hair all askew and rubbing one eye sleepily.

“I can’t yet,” Enjolras replies a little regretfully, “I still have about three more articles of this to go through before my class tomorrow. Just go to sleep without me.”

Grantaire huffs in annoyance and grumbles something that sounds like, “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Enjolras asks, frowning.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “I can’t go to sleep,” he groans.

Enjolras blinks. “Why not?”

“It’s weird. . .being in bed without you,” Grantaire admits reluctantly. “I can’t _believe_ I’m saying this, but I kind of get now why Jehan and Courfeyrac can’t sleep alone anymore.”

Enjolras is staring at him. He feels. . . _touched_ by this. Warm. He smiles. “All right, come here,” he says, picking up his pile of books and moving to the couch. Grantaire follows.

They end up tangled together, Enjolras curled up near the armrest, Grantaire spread across the length of it, his head in Enjolras’ lap, one of Enjolras’ hands in his hair.

Grantaire sighs, pleased by this repositioning, and nuzzles Enjolras’ thigh. “Will you read to me?” he asks. “I like to hear your voice.”

“Do you regularly fall asleep while I talk?” Enjolras asks him.

Grantaire smiles. “In the café, sure,” he says, then pokes Enjolras’ knee. “Come on, read.”

“It’s boring.”

“Perfect.”

Enjolras tries not to smile, but fails. He takes a breath and just starts from the middle of the legal journal he’s reading. “ ‘ _The court should not use arbitrary power. It must exercise sound, judicial discretion in each application for a license._ ’ ”

Grantaire makes a snuffly sound and turns his face more into Enjolras. Enjolras cards his fingers through dark curls.

“ ‘ _The Act of Assembly indicates how this discretion shall be exercised. In the language of the act. . .’_ ”

Enjolras keeps reading aloud until he hears Grantaire’s breath slow down to a deep growl, almost a snore. Then he leans over to press a gentle kiss to his temple, and continues on his his work.

When Courfeyrac comes home to grab his books before his class the next morning, they’re still like this; Grantaire laid out across the couch with his head nestled in Enjolras’ lap, and Enjolras curled over him, a book falling out of his hand, their faces not far from each other.

Courfeyrac smiles and sneaks through the room in order not to wake them.

He does, however, grab a sneaky picture of the two of them with his phone.


	7. music again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is not impressed with Courfeyrac’s music choices but he is UPSET OKAY

If Enjolras hears this goddamn song _one more time_ , he’s pretty sure he’s going to rip Courfeyrac’s head right off his shoulders.

Especially since his roommate keeps _singing along at the top of his fucking lungs_.

_AND I AIN’T NEVER MET NOBODY BETTERER  
_ _YOU’RE SOMEONE ELSE’S BABY_

Enjolras hauls himself up off of his desk chair with every murderous intent and storms out of his room, throwing open the door to Courfeyrac’s.

_PUT YOUR LITTLE HAND IN MINE AND LOOK INTO MY EYES, BABY EYES_.

Courfeyrac is lying on the floor of his room, splayed across the floor, belting as loudly and emotionally as he can.

_OH YOU MAKE ME WANNA LISTEN TO MUSIC AGAIN_.

“Listen, friend,” Enjolras shouts over the music, “I understand you are pining after your one true love and all, but you have _got to stop_ playing this song or your problem will be quickly and violently resolved.”

“ ‘These violent delights have violent ends,’ ” Courfeyrac muses mournfully.

“Don’t fucking quote Romeo and Juliet at me,” Enjolras groans, falling limp against the doorframe. “If I hear that goddamn play quoted in a fucking romantic context one more time I will —”

“ ‘ANDINTHEIRTRIUMPHDIELIKEFIREANDPOWDERWHICHASTHEYKISSCONSUME!’ ”

“I will murder you,” Enjolras promises.

Courfeyrac pouts at him upside down.

_THERE HAD BEEN MANY MOONS BEFORE I MET YA —_

“CHANGE THE SONG!” Enjolras bellows, then slams the door on his way out.

To his great relief, a few seconds later, the song abruptly cuts off. This relief is short lived as another one quickly takes its place.

_THERE HE GOES, MY BABY WALKS SO SLOW —_

Enjolras will not admit to shrieking in frustration before storming out of the apartment to take refuge at Combeferre’s.

Without Enjolras there to hear him, it’s not quite as satisfying to scream out Adam Lambert songs in a fit of lovesickness, but Courfeyrac keeps at it anyway. It’s about fifteen minutes before Combeferre slips into his room and he stops short, rolling over to sit up off the floor.

“Don’t tell me you could hear me from your place?” he whines.

Combeferre smiles and steps over him to sit on the bed. “Enjolras said you’re feeling a little down about Jehan today?” he prompts.

Courfeyrac leans over to turn his music down, snorting. “Enjolras did not say that.”

“Well, no,” Combeferre admits, his smile growing to a grin. “Enjolras’ choice of words was a little more colorful. I deduced the rest.”

Courfeyrac sighs. “Did you come to tell me to stop moping around?” he asks sadly.

“No, of course not,” Combeferre replies. “I came because I know how hard this has been for you, and I thought you could use some company.”

“Really?” Courfeyrac gasps, looking like he’s just been offered water in the dessert. Combeferre pats the bed next to him in response and Courfeyrac scrambles to sit next to him.

He ends up with his head in Combeferre’s lap as Combeferre pets his hair and lets him make all the groany, sobbing noises he wants.

“Why doesn’t he love me?” Courfeyrac moans.

“Have you asked him?” Combeferre replies calmly.

Courfeyrac turns to glare up at him. “Have you lost your fucking mind?” he demands. “You don’t just _say things like that_ to people.”

“You could to Jehan,” Combeferre tells him. “He’d be flattered, I think.”

“No,” Courfeyrac says firmly. “He’s not ready. If I told him I’m in love with him, he’d be overwhelmed and he’d freak out, and — You know he’s _dating_ someone right now, right?”

“They’re not serious,” Combeferre returns. “Jehan never refers to him as his boyfriend, and he keeps saying they’re ‘messing around’ — sorry,” he adds as Courfeyrac groans again at the thought of someone else’s hands on Jehan’s body.

“But that’s the point, right?” he mumbles. “He’s not ready for anything serious and I’m desperately in love with him. Not really the ideal situation.”

Combeferre smiles kindly down at Courfeyrac and continues to pet his hair. “You read him really well,” he comments finally. “You’re going to be amazing for him.”

Courfeyrac makes a face. “He deserves better than that douche he’s running around with, anyway.”

“How do you know he’s a douche?” Combeferre asks, looking amused.

“Jehan isn’t happy,” Courfeyrac says simply, and Combeferre’s smiles disappears. “He deserves to be happy.”

Combeferre’s fingers stop carding through Courfeyrac’s hair and pat him gently on the head instead. “You might want to turn the music off,” he says. “Maybe take a shower.”

“Why?” Courfeyrac whines as Combeferre essentially evicts him from his lap.

“Because Jehan is going to be here in about twenty minutes.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes pop open. “What?! He’s coming _here?_ _Why?!_ ”

“Because I invited him,” Combeferre replies, smiling serenely again. “The three of us are going to go see a movie. Except Enjolras is going to call me with urgent business right before we leave, and you two are going yourselves.”

Courfeyrac gapes at him. “How long have you been doing this?” he gasps, suddenly remembering _all the times this has happened before_. So many times the three of them were going to go do something and Combeferre had to bail at the last second. So many parties where Courfeyrac would find himself and Jehan left entirely alone in a corner somewhere. He’d never really thought anything of it — until right now.

“Since you two met,” Combeferre admits with no sense of shame.

Courfeyrac sputters at him. “I can’t tell him, ‘Ferre.”

“Then don’t,” Combeferre shrugs, standing up to rifle through Courfeyrac’s dresser. “Don’t tell him. Don’t hold his hand in the theatre. But go out with him. You need to see him.”

“Why?” Courfeyrac asks weakly as a clean shirt is tossed at his head.

“Because,” Combeferre answers logically, “if you’re upset because you’re not with him, you need to see him.”

“It doesn’t solve anything. He’s still not mine.”

“No, but it’ll make you feel better. Trust me. And go take a shower for God’s sake, you smell rank.”


End file.
